L'Arlésienne (173)
by Carods
Summary: Every criminal has admirers of their work and Raymond Reddington is no exception to the rule. L'Arlésienne realizes that the Blacklist is the best way to meet the Concierge of crime and she will stop at nothing to achieve her ends.
1. Vanessa Hardgrave

The sun was shining above the National Mall and this afternoon of May was expected to be beaming. Kids too young to be in school were laughing and playing, under the watchful gaze of their parents. The vast paths going along the lawn were flooded with walkers, joggers and, to the great pleasure of passers-by, a chocolate brown Labrador retriever chasing one of the many squirrels living in the park. The little rodent perched on a bench, jumped on a low branch and ended up on a giant oak, away from the dog's barks. The latter, refusing to despair, sat at the foot of the tree and waited, his tongue lolling.

 _"_ _Winston !"_ , a voice shouted from afar, _"Winson, come back here !"_

Winston recognized his master's voice but refrained from moving. He was not going to let that ugly little ball of fur win : it was bound to come down one of these days and he had nothing better to do than waiting for that day to come.

 _"_ _Winston !"_

The voice was becoming more pressing. It belonged to a thirty-year-old young man, slightly out of breath. His gaze fixed in turns upon the oak sheltering Winston's prey, upon said rascal, and upon the bench's occupant, a young woman with long brown hair.

 _"_ _That dog has ants in his pants !"_ , he laughed, _"Put a squirrel or a mouse under his nose, and you can be sure he's going to try and get it !"_

Vanessa looked up and gave him a faint smile. On an ordinary day, she would have followed closely the adventures of Winston and his friend the squirrel. She probably would have gotten up from the bench to pet the dog between the ears and exchange small talk with his master. But that Friday afternoon of May so very sunny did not fit the definition of a normal day and Vanessa was too upset to talk to someone. Mark, because that was the name of the young man, saw that it was preferable not to insist. He pulled Winston's leash and, after a few attempts, the dog finally agreed to move. Before turning at the corner of the next alley, Mark let his gaze drift towards the young woman he had only known for a moment. In spite of the distance, he could feel the tension surrounding her as a winter morning mist and, for a split second, right before she disappeared forever, he could have sworn she was looking back at him, her eyes begging him on her behalf to come back to her.

The action had lasted no more than two minutes and Vanessa wished it had lasted longer. She felt so alone sitting on that bench and she would not have minded some company. However, the instructions she had received over the phone the day before were clear : she had to come alone and make sure to stay so. A brief look at her watch informed her it was 2:59 pm. In less than a minute, she would know. The knot in her stomach worsened and she felt nauseous, though she had not eaten a thing since her lunch with Linda the day before.

 _"_ _Vanessa Hardgrave ?"_

She jumped. A thin silhouette wearing a cobalt-blue suit had sneaked next to her and pronounced her name in a whisper.

 _"_ _Y… yes, it's me"_ , she managed to stammer.

The courier gave her a big brown envelope and left as he had come, without a sound, without a word, without her having the time to ask him any question. Vanessa unsealed the envelope and dragged a picture from it. Two dark eyes inlayed in a swollen face were staring at her. On the other side were written a name, an address downtown and a time. She shook the envelope and a small flask, filled with a colourless liquid, fell in the palm of her hand. She put everything into her purse and stood up. She felt feverish. She had been waiting for that moment for four months now. The fear of failing was tormenting her but she was so close. She could not go back now and, truth be told, she did not want to. Her life was about to change radically and as and when the minutes went by since her meeting with the messenger, her fear was turning into excitement. If Mark had seen her again at that moment, he may not have recognized the frail and scared-looking young woman she was a few instants before. Leaving her fears wilt on the patent wood bench, she headed for the park's exit.

At 3:05 p.m., on that Friday afternoon of May so very sunny that was not an ordinary day, Vanessa Hardgrave left the National Mall for the last time. Five hours later, if everything went as planned, Vanessa Hardgrave would be known of every inhabitant of Washington. Most importantly, Vanessa Hardgrave would be known of Raymond Reddington.


	2. Viktor Pravin

That Saturday morning, while the weekend was only beginning for many Americans, the week continued for Elizabeth Keen. She did not remember taking a single day off since Raymond Reddington had entered her life. Days went one after another, each one with its fair share of unforeseen developments. Gina Zanetakos, Anslo Garrick, Lord Baltimore… so many names she had never heard a year ago and which were now a part of her everyday life, only because a man decided one day that she was the only one worth finding out about the Blacklist. The Blacklist. Liz had never hated something immaterial more than she hated the Blacklist. Well might she tell herself that, without it, the world would be far more dangerous, this thought was of very little comfort before the disruptions it had brought in her life.

These thoughts assailed Liz more than ever when she entered her kitchen. Without Raymond Reddington and his damn list, Liz would not be finding herself alone, standing on the cold tiling of an empty room. The air would be filled with a smell of pancakes and coffee. Tom would be here. The thought of Tom was enough to make her shiver. If he had be in front of her right now, she probably would have killed him but, on another hand, a part of herself, the part that was still in love with her husband, wanted him to be there, to laugh with her, kiss her and wish her a nice day. Instead, she was alone, eating breakfast at full speed before dashing to the office. Ten minutes later, when she entered the top secret building, she was surprised to see that Reddington was already there. The case he was about to introduce them to had to be very serious, otherwise he would not have taken the trouble to go out. When he saw her, a bright smile lit up his face.

 _"_ _Lizzie !"_

Elizabeth was always surprised to observe the positive effect her mere presence seemed to have on the mood of the Concierge of crime. With a gesture, he invited her to join the team gathered around the table and Liz understood that he had made a point of honour to wait for her before starting. She quickly sat on the chair he showed her. He then talked to her as she was the only person in the room, ignoring the four other people that had waited Elizabeth's arrival with him for long and silent minutes.

 _"_ _Lizzie, I assume you have heard of a woman named Vanessa Hardgrave"_.

 _"_ _Of course"_.

She would have had to live outside Washington not to have heard of Vanessa Hardgrave. The face of the young woman was all over the local news and her name has been used as a headline for a considerably long article published in the Washington Post. At 8:00 p.m. sharp, Vanessa Hardgrave went to a restaurant downtown where she had a date with Viktor Pravin, a 46-year-old bank manager. Thirty minutes later, his body was taken by forensics where, later during the evening, the coroner confirmed the cause of death he had sensed when he had first arrived to the crime scene, namely an arsenic poisoning, insisting on the intentional aspect of said poisoning. He had nodded his head towards the young woman, sitting at the table that was still set, with the exception of a glass of wine that had been taken by the police. Detective Walter Erhard had come near her. At that moment, she had looked up at him the same way she had looked at the owner of the beautiful Labrador retriever from the park a few hours before, with gentleness and fear mixed with nostalgia, knowing beforehand that she had lost everything.

 _"_ _I will not lie to you, I killed him"_ , she confessed in a barely audible breath, so low that Walter had to lean to hear her, _"But you will never know why"_.

She slipped in his big hand the small flask of glass now empty and she had not said a word since. Liz's recap had only taken a few minutes. Once she was done, she turned towards Reddington, waiting for him to continue.

 _"_ _You see, Lizzie"_ , he went on, _"I think I know why this beautiful young woman to all appearances very nice and quiet became in the space of a night a cold-blooded murderer worthy of Marie Besnard"_.

 _"_ _Care to enlighten us ?"_

 _"_ _Because of me"_.

Liz held back a smile. Reddington held himself in high esteem, she knew that, but to draw from this conclusion that a straightforward young woman would be ready to kill for him… that was a bit too much. When she pointed that out to Reddington, it was his turn to smile.

 _"_ _Maybe I should explain myself. I did not know Vanessa Hardgrave but the man she killed, Viktor Pravin, did me a few favours in the past. He was actually very reliable, until he wasn't anymore. Oh, nothing dangerous for my business, a grain of sand in my desert, but even a grain of sand can quickly wedge gears and I would have had to deal with that at some point"_.

 _"_ _So you hired Vanessa Hardgrave to kill that Pravin guy ?"_ , Ressler asked.

 _"_ _Good God no ! Donald, where is that coming from !?"_ , Reddington exclaimed before bursting out laughing. _"You are right about one thing, though"_ , he continued, _"that dear Vanessa was indeed hired by someone to get rid of Viktor, but not by me"_.

 _"_ _By who, then ?"_

 _"_ _That, Lizzie, is the million-dollar question"_.


	3. The red rose

Reddington put his hand in the inside pocket of his light-grey overcoat, pulled out a flamboyant red rose and hand it to Liz. Notwithstanding Liz's blushing and Ressler's mocking smile, he continued :

 _"_ _Lizzie, are you familiar with what French people call "L'Arlésienne ?" And before you answer, please stop martyring the poor flower, it is nothing more than a piece of evidence !"_

Without a word, Liz put the rose with crumpled petals and half-broken stem down on the table and started a brief summary of the myth of L'Arlésienne, that character that you never see but is pulling the strings behind the scenes, the ghost in charge of the story, in the protagonists' shadow.

 _"_ _There is no mention of a red rose in the story"_ , she concluded.

 _"_ _In the story of my Arlésienne, there is one"_.

 _"_ _Your Arlésienne ?"_ , Harold Cooper repeated, intrigued.

 _"_ _From 2007 until 8:00 p.m. last night, seven murders were committed following the same MO. Arsenic poisoning during a meal at the restaurant, murders committed by young women who did not have any criminal record. Women who, without exception, confessed their crime before withdrawing into silence, leaving the most skilled detectives bewildered when it comes to a potential motive. Let's add that those woman have no connection to their victims"_.

 _"_ _The victims are connected to you"_ , Elizabeth said, understanding where he was going.

 _"_ _That is what I figured out after victim number four. Ha, Santiago Perez…"_ , Reddington remembered in a dreamy tone, " _someone clearly did not appreciate that he supplied me three times in a row with the wrong brand of cigars. I admit that Fidel Castro prefers Cohibas but my heart belongs to Montecristos, that is the way it is"_.

 _"_ _Hello miss, five thousand dollars in cash for you if you kill that man over there. Why ? Because Raymond Reddington prefers the Montecristos !"_ , Ressler aped.

 _"_ _You should speak more often with a feminine pitch, Donald"_ , Reddington replied, _"it suits you beautifully"_.

 _"_ _They are not doing it for the money"_.

While Red and Ressler were busy casting barbs at each other, Liz had put the pieces of the puzzle together. Those vulnerable and suggestible young women were recruited to kill people who were complete strangers to them. The connection between them is undetectable because unthinkable. Which detective, as cunning and experienced as they can be, could think, or imagine, that those woman turned themselves overnight into murderers because of the number four of the FBI's Most Wanted ? Because, as senseless as it seemed to Liz, Reddington was right : he was the reason for their killing spree.

 _"_ _They are doing this to do you a favour. Wrong brand of cigars, incompetent bank manager, probably some transactions going wrong… none of the seven victims knew the woman who killed them but they all knew you, and they all somehow offended you. It is pretty clever, actually. The police only sees an unexplained murder but if anyone was to nose around a little bit more and stumbled upon you, what could they do about it ? To the outside world, you are on the run and seven more murders to blame you for… it would not make much difference"_.

 _"_ _Though I strongly disagree with your last sentence, let's not focus on that."_ , Reddington pointed out before looking at his protégée with a caring look, _"You are brilliant, Lizzie. I hope you are often told so. Indeed, someone took the habit of going after people of my entourage who, let's put it that way, stopped being as trustworthy as they once were. The day after each murder, I receive a red rose. As you will figure out, the one on the desk was delivered this morning. Don't bother sending it to the lab, it will not amount to anything. Trust me, I tried already. Not a fingerprint, not a DNA sample, either on the flower or on the card bearing the name of the deceased that goes with it"_.

The rest of the story matched what Liz had imagined. From the moment he had realized his connection to the victims, Reddington had investigated on the young women and had drawn the conclusion that someone was manipulating them. He had paid a dozen of visits, more or less friendly, to partners, friends or enemies, but none of them was behind it or had any knowledge of it.

 _"_ _After a while, I decided to give up"_ , he admitted, _"after all, that manipulative shadow, that Arlésienne, was not really doing me any harm"_.

 _"_ _So why put her on the List now ?"_

 _"_ _Because if someone was to clean things up in my relationships, it should be me and only me"_.

Liz shuddered when she heard the deep voice enunciate those words. She forgot it sometimes, but Raymond Reddington was still a fugitive, and the fact that he was always so nice to her only made more dreadful those rare moments when he turned back into the ruthless criminal he was.

 _"_ _It means two things"_ , Reddington resumed, in the same calm but threatening tone, as threatening as the storm above the sea, _"First of all, the person that believes they have the right to decide in my place is about to find out they are as far away as possible from being right. Secondly, if that person knows about the troubles I had with these people, then that person knows the internal functioning of my organization"_.

 _"_ _You have a mole"_ , Cooper understood, _"and you want our help to catch it"_.

 _"_ _My mole, as you call it, Harold, killed seven of you fellow citizens in the space of eight years and got away with it by framing seven young and manipulated women. I concede that the victims were no saints and maybe you do not have a great deal of respect from murderers. But nevertheless, my mole, Harold, tore fourteen lives apart. Do you think that line to catch the FBI's attention is passed or does the fact that I find a slight advantage into this investigation is a deal-breaker ?"_.

An icy silence fell upon the Post Office. It seemed the room temperature had fallen and even the fly that was on Ressler's shoulder did not dare beating its wings to fly away. With a nod, Harold Cooper gave his assent and went back to his office. Reddington headed to the way out, where Dembe was waiting for him, leaving the ill omen red rose on the table around which the four remaining members of the team were wondering in which direction the true director of the taskforce had gone.


	4. La Conciergerie

After that grand gesture, Liz had immersed herself in the reading of the police files concerning L'Arlésienne's three first victims. By Reddington's own admission, he had made the connection between him and the victims only after Santiago Perez, fourth name on the list. It did not mean that he had not investigated on Milan Silvanis, Zoey Risto and Stanislas Cornel, as she was doing right now, but maybe he had missed something. However, after forty-five minutes and about as many sips of coffee later, she drew the conclusion that no, nothing had escaped Reddington, or most likely Mr. Kaplan, for the simple reason that there was nothing. Nothing conclusive for who knew Reddington was involved, and even less for who did not. Frustrated, Liz stood up to stretch her legs. She met Ressler's gaze, then Samar's. Both answered to her unspoken questions by a negative nod : they had also hit a brick wall. From where she was standing, Liz could see through the half-opened blinds Harold Cooper sitting at his desk, drawn into paperwork, probably to try not to think about his altercation with Reddington. Only Aram looked engrossed in his research. On his serious face were reflected the pages he was scrolling on his computer. Liz was about to call Red to announce him the state of the investigation, namely something close to the void, when the IT engineer jumped out of his chair.

 _"_ _You guys need to see this !"_ , he exclaimed, barely concealing his triumphant tone, _"I think I just found something"_.

Samar, who was near him, leant over his shoulder. Her eyes furtively opened wide when she saw what Aram was showing her.

 _"_ _You found something, for sure"_ , she murmured.

Ressler and Liz, who still could not see what was piquing the two other agents' curiosity, were surprised to see a smile forming on agent Navabi's lips. Their surprise went away when Aram pivoted the screen towards them. It was a very classic homepage for a website : a black background, links towards sections written in a white font, a few ads on the side. Less classic was however the picture used as a header : Reddington's wanted notice on one side, an aged version of his picture on the other, both surrounding the name of the website, written in flames :

 _" conciergeofcrime **dot** com_ _"_ , Ressler read.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, the four agents were unable to help smiling. Raymond Reddington had a fan-club. The discovery was not breaking news for Liz and Ressler, since they both already went on the website : Ressler as part of his investigation on Reddington, Liz for her criminal psychology classes at Quantico.

 _"_ _First, I investigated on the roses"_ , Aram explained, _"I tried to cross-reference the sale of red roses in town with the time of the murders but you have no idea of how many red roses there are in DC ! It was a dead end. Then, I remembered what you said, Liz. They are doing this to help Mr. Reddington. But why would you help a criminal on the run by killing members of his entourage ? Do you remember when the press could not stop talking about Charles Manson's wedding ? That's when I remembered that that I figured it out"_.

 _"_ _L'Arlésienne recruits fans of Reddington"_ , Liz followed, _"women who would do anything to meet him, or at least to make a good impression"_.

 _"_ _Exactly"_ , Aram confirmed, _"and that's when I told myself : what is the perfect spot to do that ? The answer was obvious : Internet. It fits all the more so as Reddington is not a big lover of it, so I am not surprised that he did not think to search the answer to this enigma online. He is an old-school type of guy, ads in the evening newspapers and all… Anyway, from there, I did not have to look for much longer. There are a lot of Facebook pages, Tumblr accounts, a great deal of tweets but the most conclusive is this website. Let me show you something"_.

Aram started typing quite fast on his keyboard and numerous lines of code appeared on the screen, as if tiny green ants had suddenly started running among the pixels.

 _"_ _You see ? The encryption method is extremely sophisticated, it is impenetrable. Impossible to know where the servers are located, who is the web provider, who is the webmaster, nothing"_.

 _"_ _It does not tally with the idea you and I have of a website run by an idle stay-at-home mom who needs thrills in her life"_ , Samar noted, _"but perfectly with the idea of a website run by a maniac blinded by her admiration for Reddington : crazy but sane enough to cover her tracks"_.

 _"_ _Well, the problem is indeed that she, or he for that matter, did her job so well that I cannot get anything out of this website"_.

 _"_ _You should ask Keen for help, I am sure she is already registered"_ , Ressler said ironically.

 _"_ _How do you know that ?"_ , Liz exclaimed, pretending to be taken aback, _"Oh ! Hang on ! Are you 'DonLovesRed52' ?"_.

A mischievous grin on their lips, the two agents re-examined the homepage, under the gaze of a 25-year younger Raymond Reddington. A section invited you to read his biography, another boasted about listing all of his crimes and another one took an inventory of partner websites, featuring similar websites dedicated to more or less famous faces of the criminal world. If staring at the screen could have gotten them some answers, it is a torrent of answers that would have been raining on them. They decided to give up for the moment and followed Liz's advice to go and pay Vanessa Hardgrave a visit.

If they had had access to the website interface, they would have known that five people were currently connected. An IP address matched theirs even though, for security reasons, it traced back to Australian coordinates. Three other addresses respectively belonged to a criminal law student, an office worker from Pennsylvania and a forest ranger from the Norwegian mountains. The last address was in Washington and, if Aram had been able to get it, it would have led him straight to the spacious flat that belongs to L'Arlésienne. As she did every evening after work, she sat down at her desk made out of solid pine, on a leather chair. She poured herself a glass of red wine, which she slowly sipped while browsing on her website. If, as Ressler had suggested it, Liz had been registered into the website, she would have known that it was not limited to three sections. Pseudonym and password opened for you the secret door to "La Conciergerie", section of the website where the insiders could talk to each other. It was La Conciergerie that served as purgatory for L'Arlésienne's preys. She was actually thinking about Vanessa. Once more, the mission had been a success. However, once more, her happiness was not complete. Reddington was not reacting, not to thank her, not to stop her. Was it possible that he might have not understood what she was doing for him ? She strongly doubted it. A man such as Ray, as she loved calling him, was necessarily aware of her existence. Then why such a silence ? Impatience was overcoming her and a fever, emphasised by the wine's exhalations, seized her. She was tired of waiting in the shadows. If Reddington did not react quickly, she would have to shift up a gear.


	5. Who is to blame ?

The gate closed in front of her with a loud grinding noise, marking the end of her daily walk, and Vanessa found herself locked up again. For the moment, she had the place all for herself. Sharon, her cellmate was in solitary confinement. Sharon was the kind of women who did not hesitate protecting newcomers nor disfiguring anyone who would dare disrespecting her or her protégées. If Johanna felt like making fun of the tattoo on her left wrist, representing a dove, much good may it do her, but she was not allowed to complain about ending up with a broken nose. Sharon Davis commanded respect, and that involved paying the price for twenty-four or forty-eight hours every once in a while. Without her by her side, Vanessa felt more vulnerable. The other inmates did not like her very much and some of them did not do without making her understand that. She simply hoped that Sharon's aura would be strong enough so that no one would dare annoying her. Laying down on a very uncomfortable mattress, Vanessa realized that, in the large, she had adjusted well to the life in prison. She exercised more, ate three hot meals a day, spent a lot of time reading. Paradoxically, she had more links to the outside world than when she lived in her tiny apartment in Washington. She knew Sharon, the guards, the librarian and had even become friendly with Norah, her colleague from the laundry.

For the first time in many years, she had spoken to her mother. Barbara Hardgrave had taken the first flight from Nebraska when she had heard the news. The grey-haired, drawn features little lady had felt oppressed by the concrete walls closing up on her when a warden had taken her to the visiting room. Seeing her daughter in the infamous orange suit, on the other side of the glass, had broken her heart. At that very specific moment, Barbara had known she had made the worst mistake of her life when she had allowed her daughter to leave for the capital when she was only eighteen years old.

 _"_ _I should have told you to stay"_ , she had told her in a voice shivering with remorse, _"You were too young to be on your own. If you had not left, maybe you would not be where you are today"_.

 _"_ _If you had not tried to control my life, maybe I would not be where I am today"_ , the young woman had replied before going silent once more.

There was no use in arguing over it, the harm had been done. Vanessa had known since middle school that she would leave home early. She did it the day after her birthday, through a note left on the kitchen table, and she had not talked to her mother since. She had been ashamed of that woman for her entire life and seeing her before her, all tearful, only exacerbated the hate she had against her. She had brutally hanged up and had ran to the courtyard, raging mad.

Unintentionally, she was understanding that by trying to escape her mother's yoke, she had fallen under the heel of the malevolent woman from La Conciergerie, the mysterious MBR. That night, lulled by Sharon's snoring coming from the top bunk, she wondered how she had gotten there. Was it truly because of Raymond Reddington ? Because of MBR ? Because of her mother ? None of these explanations seemed better, or truer, than the others and thinking about it had only plunged her back into that vicious circle that made her go from rage to despair including fear and shame. At the risk of burying her head in the sand, of lying to herself and lying to the world, she would rather convince herself, to the point she would be persuaded of it, that she was doing this for Raymond Reddington. Yes, he fascinated her. Yes, she had killed for him. And no one, not even herself, should be allowed to take that away from her.

All these thoughts had come and gone into Vanessa's head in the space of twenty-four hours only. She had not said more than twenty words since her arrest but her mind was twisting and twirling. Quiet to all appearances, a storm was raging inside her mind, as it would never be resting again. She was mixing up features from her mother, the young man from the park, Reddington, Sharon, the cop who had arrested her. An endless entanglement of names and faces she had given up on untangling. If nothing was making sense, she only needed to be sure of one thing : Raymond Reddington finally knew her and that was the greatest thing she had ever accomplished in twenty-six years of existence.

That is the lost young woman Donald Ressler and Elizabeth Keen met after her second daily walk at the Virginia County penitentiary for women.

 _"_ _Vanessa ? I am special agent Elizabeth Keen, from the FBI, and this is my partner, Donald Ressler. Would you mind to tell us what pushed you to kill Viktor Pravin ?"_

Even if she did not let anything appear, Vanessa quivered when she heard the name. Viktor Pravin. She did not even remember that it was his name but, indeed, when he had held out his podgy little hand to her above the restaurant table, she remembered it was that name he had used to introduce himself.

 _"_ _Viktor with a k, not a c, I am not a classic man"_ , he had joked.

Why had she not think about him until then ? Deep down, he was the answer to the question she had before. He was the reason she was where she was, answering questions asked by the FBI. Why could he not take good care of Reddington's money ? If he had done his job properly, none of this would have happened.

 _"_ _Vanessa ?"_

Even if she knew she was wasting her time, Liz repeated the question but it was as if Vanessa had not even heard it. It was not that she was not listening but she was lost in thought. Liz decided to try a different approach.

 _"_ _Do you know a man named Raymond Reddington ?"_

That time, Vanessa was not able to conceal the shiver the name prompted in her and that gave Liz the silent but positive answer she was waiting for. To Vanessa's great surprise, Liz rose from her chair, thanked her and dragged her dumbstruck colleague outside.

 _"_ _Do you care to tell me why our questioning only last forty-five seconds ?"_

 _"_ _She is not going to say a word, it is blindingly obvious"_ , Liz answered while heading to the car, _"I think she has no idea of where she is, or why she did what she did. However, when I mentioned Reddington, her entire body told me he had something to do with the case. And that something, we already know about it. It's the website. Everything leads back to the website"_.

 _"_ _So what do we do now ?"_

 _"_ _We go back to the office. Once we get there, I try to log in. It's our best chance"_.

In this way, Liz and Ressler got back to their SUV, leaving behind them a Vanessa Hardgrave more lost that she had ever been, because she was past the point of no return, her body and her mind both trapped forever. Seeing the prison reflecting into his rear-view mirror, Ressler could not help but think about the devastating effect Raymond Reddington could have on a vulnerable young woman. Unintendedly, his eyes fixed upon Liz and, as they drove to Washington, he found himself hoping that she would never find herself in such a situation.


	6. The mole

Back home, Liz turned her computer on. She had preferred visiting the website away from her colleagues. Not that she had something to hide from them but, even if she could not explain it to herself, she had the feeling that everything related to Raymond Reddington was more of her concern than the team's. She then felt more at ease in the protective cocoon that was her bedroom. Quickly, she found the page Aram had shown them before. That time, she clicked on a button they had ignored previously, the one leading to subscription. In the field asking her her pseudonym, she first simply wrote _"Liz"_ down. Mechanically, her eyes turned to the website's header and met Reddington's. Then, almost on instinct, without completely understanding why, she knew she had to choose _"Lizzie"_. A minute later, she was aware of the existence of La Conciergerie and a light crossed her mind. It was by this way that L'Arlésienne contacted the young women. With the protection she had placed around the website, now impenetrable, nothing suggested that behind the display of a dubious fan club was hiding a machination designed to clean up Raymond Reddington's empire.

 _"_ _The perfect front"_ , Liz told herself.

Going through the website, she was intrigued by the fact that there were not so many messages but the mystery vanished when she saw that members could contact each other privately : L'Arlésienne had added one more safety to guarantee the secret of her operations. All in all, La Conciergerie was composed of members' presentation topics, the rest happening in the shadows. It was now Liz's turn to post her own. If there was anything that she had learnt from her short investigation, it was that L'Arlésienne targeted easy preys : therefore, she had to reflect the image of a fragile young woman to catch her attention. She rapidly realized that, unlike the other undercover operations she had to do before, she did not really have to make anything up. Her story was fully enough. In a few sentences, she opened up to the unknown woman, without unveiling too much, knowing that her colleagues, nay Reddington, could be led to read those messages. A small paragraph painted the portrait of Lizzie, 30 years old, recently orphaned, recently divorced, no children, with a demanding job… she did not have to go much further. She had the feeling that it would be enough to lure L'Arlésienne. Waiting for a reply, Liz moved away from the computer. She made herself a cup of tea while thinking about what she had just written. On the outside, it is true that her life did not look so joyful. However, despite everything that had happened to her, she could not consider herself as unhappy.

Liz's ad did not stay long without being read. L'Arlésienne had run out of scapegoats and she needed to renew her stash. Therefore, she was on the lookout for a new ad to be posted on the website. That afternoon, two more people had joined the ranks of La Conciergerie. The first introduced himself as a retired person from New Jersey that claimed he knew Reddington back in 2000, which made L'Arlésienne smile. Since she had opened the website, she had stopped counting the number of people that affirmed knowing Reddington, some of them even claiming they were very close. However, she had studied the character long enough to know that if you were in touch with him, you did not brag about it, at the risk of receiving some unpleasant visits. The second ad held her for much longer. She had seen countless lost souls looking for thrills and it was always among them that she would find the rare pearl. In this capacity, that _"Lizzie"_ could be exactly what she was looking for.

She grabbed a burner phone and called the only recorded number. Twenty miles from there, the same device vibrated on the passenger seat of an old Ford, parked in front of a fast-food restaurant. Killian Edison, its owner, wiped his greasy fingers with a napkin put on his lap, put down his burger on it, and picked up.

 _"_ _I have some work for you to do"_.

Killian had been working with L'Arlésienne from the beginning. One day, seven years prior, he had found himself standing of the pavement of the county prison, with only a watch and ten dollars, after serving eighteen months for some drug-related issues. That is when he had recognized his former next-door neighbour. First, he had thought it was just a coincidence, how could it be otherwise ? But, thinking about it, what else could she be doing there other that waiting for him, as weird as it sounded ? And indeed, when he had come near her, she had offered him a job. Upon her request, he would have to follow certain people and give her a full report. Some other days, he had to hand an envelope to them. If he did not ask any questions and brought her good information, he would be paid cash. Killian had not hesitated for long before accepting. Of course, he had quickly understood that the young women he would hand the envelopes over to ended up being accused of murder. The first time it had happened, he almost gave it all up. He had flown off the handle when he had understood that the woman he had helplessly fallen in love with had used him to achieve her ends.

That night, she took the time to explain everything to him. That night, he understood why she had chosen him : not because, for many months, they had shared the same hallway, but because he worked occasionally for Raymond Reddington. That night, he understood that if he wanted to have any chance at all with the one he considered to be the love of his life, he had to be the man who would help her meet Raymond Reddington. And there was no reason for him not to be able to accomplish his mission. He then became the link between the young women and the victims, the inside man on behalf of L'Arlésienne.

He quickly wrote down the IP address L'Arlésienne dictated him, and straight away after hanging up, he set off. If Liz had used the computers from the office to subscribe, she would have taken advantage of the encrypted channels from the FBI, which located the Post Office somewhere near Melbourne. However, nothing was protecting her house and Killian had no problem finding her. He parked across the street and waited. A while later, he was able to get a few pictures of Liz, leaning on her window to get some air. He ran the pictures through a facial recognition software normally reserved to the authorities and found a match in the federal database. Special agent Elizabeth Scott Keen. Killian immediately recognized the name, but it took him a moment to remember where he had heard it. Only recently, amongst Reddington's followers, rumour had it that he had some sort of a relationship with this Elizabeth but nobody dare hypothesizing aloud. They were just rumours, whispers in Reddington's wake, and the whole matter reeked of mystery.

When Killian brought those news to L'Arlésienne, he thought she was literally going to jump for joy. However, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to be happy about. How do you convince an FBI agent to commit murder ? When he asked L'Arlésienne, she burst out laughing.

 _"_ _Don't you see ?"_ , she said while putting her hand on his cheek, _"Of course, you don't see. You are so naive ! I always had in mind that one day, our… work could interest the police, but do you really think it is a simple coincidence that it is this specific agent that appears in our lives ? No, Killian, it is not the FBI who is after us. It is Ray"_.

She moved away from her lover and added :

 _"_ _It is Ray, do you understand ?"_ , she exulted, _"He finally decided to take care of me ! And you and I are going to make sure he is not disappointed…"_

After all these years, L'Arlésienne had finally managed to pique Reddington's curiosity. Now she needed to draw his attention and she was going to do that using Elizabeth Keen.


	7. Bait

Elizabeth had not received an answer to her ad on La Conciergerie yet. Perhaps she was not of any interest for L'Arlésienne ? She erased that thought from her mind : she could not allow herself to doubt like that. She needed to catch the mysterious woman's attention. Tired of waiting, she decided to go back to the Post Office in order to bring the team up to date.

 _"_ _What's up ?"_ , Aram asked her as soon as she passed the door.

 _"_ _Not so much"_ , she sighed, _"I just discovered a secret section on the website. "La Conciergerie". Don't laugh, it is really called like that, look"_.

She gestured him to move aside so she could be in front of the computer. She logged in and the messages appeared onscreen. Aram took back the helm so he could try again to break the gates of the website but in was in vain. La Conciergerie, even more than the rest of the website, was a true fortress.

 _"_ _She must have a team of hackers working for her, dammit !"_ , Aram cursed, not used to computer problems resisting him.

The ultra-elevated protection surrounding the website would have made more sense to him if he had known that behind L'Arlésienne was hiding a particularly brilliant biotechnology engineer, who therefore did not have any trouble burying her secrets into the depths of La Conciergerie.

 _"_ _It does not mean we're back to square one"_ , Liz reassured him, _"I took the time to read every message ever posted by the members and among them, I was able to find the seven murderers, including Vanessa Hardgrave"_.

 _"_ _So it is La Conciergerie that acts as a recruitment platform"_ , Harold Cooper summarized.

 _"_ _Indeed"_ , Liz confirmed, _"people introduce themselves and L'Arlésienne deduces from that who can be manipulated into committing murder. In a way, she acts as a profiler, but on behalf of the crime"_.

 _"_ _What I'm wondering"_ , Ressler added, _"is what good it does us to know all that if we can't access the internal structure of the website"_.

 _"_ _I have an account now"_ , Liz reminded him with a crooked grin, _"it may not be a lot but I think it is as much as we'll get. I know what L'Arlésienne wants, and I'm gonna give it to her. Then we'll just have to wait for her to rise to the bait"_.

If L'Arlésienne did not come to her, Liz was going to make sure she was interested to the point she would have no other choice but to contact her. She wrote a series of messages fully suggesting her admiration for Reddington and her will to finally meet the man who fascinated her so much one day. Then again, Liz realized that she did not have to make up stories. Whatever she said, she was aware of how easy it was for Reddington to enthral her. She hoped it appeared through enough in her writings. Even if she did not know it yet, those new demonstrations were exactly what L'Arlésienne was waiting for. The latter read them aloud to Killian.

 _"_ _Perfect, it's perfect !"_ , she exclaimed, exulting, _"look at all these little baits, spread here and there for me to find"_.

 _"_ _Poor child"_ , she continued, without looking sorry at all, _"she has no idea that I am the one ensnaring her"_.

And it was true that Elizabeth did not suspect anything. She was sure her plan was going to work. In a way, it was indeed working perfectly but it was only because L'Arlésienne let it be so and Liz knew nothing about that. Therefore, a satisfied look appeared on her face when she noticed that she had received a private message. Before opening it, she called the team, who joined her around her cluttered desk.

 _"_ _Let's see what this… MBR wants from me"_ , Liz announced, reading the name of the sender.

 _"_ _Initials, you think ?"_ , Samar suggested.

Liz nodded. It was probably the case. The mysterious woman was not making the job any easier for them. A first name would have been a start but no, they had to settle for three little letters which could mean everything and anything. Fortunately, the rest of the message, thought it was brief, looked promising.

 _"_ _Lizzie, if you're interested in doing a little job that could get you to be known of Ray, contact me at the following number and I will give you further information"_.

Were ensuing said number and a postscript asking that the establishing contact was made using a burner phone. Liz looked at Aram, who shrugged :

 _"_ _I know what you're going to ask me but don't hold your breath. Given the protection surrounding the website, the number will lead to nothing"_.

And indeed, he came up empty handed. Meanwhile, Liz had been entrusted with one of the numerous burners owned by the Bureau, in the event of an undercover job. To the uninformed user, there were no differences between those devices and the ones you could but at the local store. However, the operative using it knew it was supplied with a GPS tag, which could turn out to be extremely helpful if the mission went south. Equipped like that, Liz confirmed to MBR that she was interested. That time, L'Arlésienne's answer was almost immediate. Liz was supposed to go to the National Mall at 3:00 p.m., alone, and someone would give her the details of her task. Liz guessed that those instructions were exactly the same the seven other women received, the instructions that turned them into killers. In spite of herself, she shivered.

 _"_ _That woman is evil"_ , she confirmed to her colleagues, _"She planned everything so we would not be able to trace anything back to her and yet she allows herself to be directly in touch with her victims"_.

 _"_ _You don't have to go, Keen"_ , Ressler told her, guessing what she had in mind, _"we can perfectly send our guys to pick up the middleman from the park and, with a bit of luck, he will rat out his boss' name"_.

 _"_ _No. That meeting is our only chance and we cannot afford to rely on luck. I'm going alone, I get the information and then I will find a way to glean more details on her or on how to get in touch directly. That woman is careful. If she suspects a dirty trick, she will slip through our fingers"_.

 _"_ _No way you're going there on your own !"_ , Ressler protested.

 _"_ _Haven't you heard what I just said ?"_ , Liz retorted, irritated by the fact that every man in her life was treating her like a little girl.

 _"_ _Agents !"_ , Cooper interrupted, _"Keen, you'll go but Ressler and Navabi will come along in plain clothes, ready to intervene if things go downhill"_.

Liz consented, knowing that if she protested, Cooper would not let her go. Half an hour later, she was sitting at the same spot Vanessa Hardgrave was occupying a few days before. In the distance, she glimpsed a young man, keeping on a leash a brown dog, looking in her direction. She thought for a moment that he was the middleman but he was already drawing away. Maybe she reminded him of someone. On her right, Ressler was sitting at a table situated among others in front of the truck of a hawker. He was calmly sipping his cappuccino while pretending to be absorbed in the reading of the Washington Post. The cliché of the cop spying on the criminal behind a newspaper made Liz smile but it was actually working. She also spotted Samar who, not far away, was mingling with people jogging, without letting her out of her sight.

However, nothing went as they had planned. No one came to sit on the bench next to Liz. No one gave her a file on her future victim. Because the future victim of L'Arlésienne was no one other than her. Before anyone had the time to react, a black van parked in a screech of tires. Liz barely got the time to turn around to see two vigorous arms seizing her and lifting her as she was as light as a feather to drag her at the back of the vehicle. By the time Ressler and Navabi rushed over, the only thing left were two sets of tire tracks gashing the lawn. Elizabeth Keen's abduction had taken no more than thirty seconds.


	8. The Ghost Twins

Reddington had remained absolutely silent while Cooper related everything that had happened at the National Mall. The latter was expecting the Concierge of crime to be furious but, if it was the case, he did not let anything show through. Which, in Cooper's opinion, was not such a good sign. Once the events were summed up, Reddington got up from the chair the director had offered him to sit on a few minutes ago and, without ceasing to make his hat swirl between his hands, left the room.

 _"_ _We are going to do everything we can to find her"_ , Cooper assured him from his office's doorstep, _"I promise you"_.

As if he had not heard anything, as if no one else but him was in the room, Reddington headed to the exit. When Dembe saw him coming, he knew his friend was having a rainy day. It was not much of a surprise. Raymond's mood depended on Elizabeth's well-being and, right now, this well-being was most likely anything but well. Without waiting for Dembe to open the door, Reddington got into the car and slammed the door, so unusually loud that the parking watchman jumped.

 _"_ _Take me back to the apartment, please"_.

The tone was calm but Dembe knew better. A glance at the rear-view mirror only confirmed what he was suspecting. Though he remained stone-faced, blood was pounding in his temples and he was clenching his fists. As many signs indicating that the storm was near. Dembe speeded up : he knew it was better if the rage burst away from everyone, in the soothing surroundings of Reddington's flat. Once he would have let all of his anger go, he would be able to come up with a plan of action. Once the apartment's door closed, the storm stroke and Dembe occupied himself with a jigsaw until it was over. A tinkling sound coming from the bedroom informed him that an object had not survived. He was hoping it was not Quacky, a little duck made of crystal that he and Reddington had acquired quite randomly at an auction in Hong Kong. The palmiped had been taking centre stage on the mantelpiece and the two men had become attached to it. Dembe was gathering four or five pieces that seemed to form a part of the helm of the boat he was supposed to reconstitute when Reddington came back into the living room. In spite of himself, Dembe could not help but glancing inside the room Reddington had just left. He blurted out a relieved sigh when he saw that the glass fragments on the floor were green – Quacky was transparent – reaction that Reddington did not fail to notice.

 _"_ _Dembe, I didn't touch the duck, he's okay"_.

Dembe laughed, which made Reddington smile.

 _"_ _I am sorry about all this"_ , he apologized, showing the debris with his hand.

He was now pacing up and down in the room, his voice hardening a bit more every time his feet were hitting the ground.

 _"_ _What a bunch of incompetents !"_ , he thundered, _"In broad daylight, a place crawling with people, two hyper trained agents to watch her and nobody is capable of preventing anything !"_

He sat on his favourite chair, the one that was away enough from the window to thwart the attempts of a potential sniper but also close enough so that the sunbeams could enlighten and heat it. Next to it was a small table on which were put an earthenware ashtray and a picture frame, which he grabbed. From her glazed paper haven, a 15-year-old Elizabeth Keen was smiling at him. Reddington passed his finger along the glass, as if he was trying to stroke her hair through the pane.

 _"_ _I am sorry, Lizzie"_ , he whispered, _"I should have been with you, I should have been there to protect you. But don't worry, I'm going to find you. I promise you. And unlike Harold Cooper's, my promises are worth something"_.

He put down the frame a bit harder that intended and stood up. Dembe followed suit, understanding that the time to go back to business had come. While the taskforce was crisscrossing the vicinity of the National Mall in the hope of getting a description of the kidnappers or of their vehicles, Reddington had a head start on them on the matter. If he had not said a thing during Cooper's report, he had remembered everything from it and had immediately recognized the Hartwig Twins's MO. Though they were far away from the Pavlovich brothers, Gunther and Gustav were not less known for their skills in the abduction business. If discretion and rapidity were two qualities not only required but mandatory in that line of work, the brothers particularly exceled in being fast. In thirty seconds, they were in and out, which had given them the nickname of the "Ghost Twins".

Fifteen minutes later, Dembe was driving Reddington to a disused warehouse that he owned. Red had made arrangements so that when he would arrive, the brothers would already be there. Indeed, Stan's pickup was waiting for them in front of the door.

 _"_ _Stan, what a pleasure it is to see you !"_ , Red exclaimed while getting out of the car, _"How's the wife ?"_

 _"_ _She's very well, Raymond. You'd know that if you came over more !"_

 _"_ _Mea culpa. I've been very busy lately but I'm not forgetting the invite"_.

 _"_ _I hope so !"_ , Stan replied before starting talking in a much more serious tone, _"Now where do you want me to put them ? As usual ?"_

Red nodded and Stanley Quinn began unloading the boot of his car. Most of the time, it was cluttered with fishing gear or grocery shopping but today, the packets he had to handle were two 33-year-old men, sleeping soundly for now. Stan being built as a twelve-year-old boy, nobody was suspecting him and that's what made him so terrifying. You never saw him coming. When the brothers woke up, they were uncomfortably seating on a metal chair, duct tape holding their wrists and ankles together. In front of them was standing Raymond Reddington.

 _"_ _Gentlemen ! I am glad to see that you are as good in abduction as you are in, well, being abducted ! I am very interested in you latest work"_.

The Hartwigs kept quiet, which did not surprise Reddington.

 _"_ _Come on, it is impossible for you not to remember it ! Yesterday afternoon, National Mall ? No, still nothing ? Well, if you cannot remember that, let's try something else. You cannot have forgotten about Elizabeth ! Once you have laid eyes on her, she is unforgettable, that's a fact ! Alright, you are not helping me at all her. And it's bad. Very bad"_.

When he resumed talking, he was not joking anymore. If a tone had been able to kill a man, the twins would have died instantly.

 _"_ _You know who I am. Maybe you know nothing about the woman you were asked to kidnap, so allow me to enlighten you. Her name is Elizabeth and she means a lot to me. If you don't know much, at least you know that I will stop at nothing to protect the people I care about. And when it comes to Elizabeth, I really mean nothing. If I need to refresh your memory, I'll find a way to do it, trust me"_.

Reddington knew he was on the right track. He could guess the twins' nervousness by the thin rivulets of sweat that were dripping from their temples. If he had had more time, he could have broken them simply by talking. Worst case scenario, he would have had to use so torture tricks. But he had neither the time nor the envy. Before anyone could realize what he had in mind, he had drawn his 9mm and two bullets had passed through Gustav Hartwig. Gunther, his face studded with blood drops, screamed. Reddington took him by the shoulders and shook him.

 _"_ _Gustav had exactly twenty minutes before bleeding out. If you tell me what I need to know, Dembe here will take him to the nearest hospital where he'll be saved. Do I really need to tell you the alternative ?"_.

 _"_ _Killian Edison"_ , Gunther shouted, hoping that the faster he talked, the more chances his brother would have to survive, _"the man we met is named Killian Edison. He gave us an hour, a place and the girl's picture. We took her, destroyed her phone and handed her over to him. That's all we know, I swear that it's…"_

The detonation shut down his promises forever. Reddington left the two brothers at death's door, knowing their end was near. If they were a real thing, the twins were about to become actual ghosts.

 _"_ _Call M. Kaplan"_ , Red told Dembe, _"I know where to go"_.


	9. Into the Darkness

Her first reflex was to grab her gun but she was unable to reach the holster hung to her belt, on her right side. De facto, she was not wearing a holster nor a belt, which was not surprising. She was lying down on a king-size bed. Whoever brought her there had only left her the bare minimum, namely her white tank top and pair of black jeans, whose pockets had been emptied. Her bare arms were tied to the headboard by two pairs of handcuffs. Though she knew she was wasting her time, she pulled hard on them hoping that, completely by chance, her shackles would decide to take their day off and would yield by themselves. Her stresses were in vain, all the more so as she was still feeling very numb, courtesy of the Hartwig Twins. Sentenced to stay put, she tried hard to get her calmness back and focused on taking stock of. On her right, a wooden table was the support for a bedside lamp now turned off. On her left, a basic wardrobe was rising to the ceiling. In front of her, incrusted in walls covered with purple paper was a door, most likely in solid oak. The rest of the ornament was composed of thick rugs featuring eastern patterns spread on the floor and paintings from unknown artists, sadly waiting in their glass frames a glory that would never come. It was nothing more than a simple spare room which, though it was well maintained, did not seem like it was used very often. Maybe it was a sign that the lady, or the man, of the house was a lonely soul. However, Liz was not in the mood for losing herself in conjecture. It seemed to her that the room was immersed into some sort of fog. However, though the curtains of the only window were drawn, a certain lightness was emanating from the outside. Was it the sun ? Was it the moon ? Was it a street lamp or the lights of a car ? She could not tell. Even if the room had been illuminated from all quarters, Liz would still have had the impression of swimming into the darkness. The sedative still having an effect, she slumbered, drifting towards lands inhabited by evasive nightmares. The jingling of the door put a stop to her reveries and when L'Arlésienne half-opened the door, Liz's eyes were wide open.

 _"_ _Oh Lizzie, you're awake. Perfect."_

When she heard the person speaking calling her "Lizzie", she thought it was Reddington but no, that was impossible. She was sure she had heard a woman's voice. Said woman entered her field of vision and Liz was finally able to put a face on the woman she instinctively knew to be the mysterious MBR. L'Arlésienne.

 _"_ _Who are you ?"_ , she whispered, still too weak to articulate properly.

 _"_ _You know who I am"_.

 _"_ _I know you go by the name of MBR, but that does not tell me who you are"_.

 _"_ _You can call me Moira. Moira Blackthorne"_.

 _"_ _M for Moira. B for Blackthorne. So what does the R stand for ?"_ , Liz inquired.

 _"_ _What do you think ?"_

It took Liz a few seconds to figure it out but once she understood, she could not her but snorting. The mocking was not to Moira's liking and she slapped her. Liz felt a metallic taste filling her mouth, as if her own smile had started bleeding. She knew then it was pointless to act all innocent. Moira knew very well who she was.

 _"_ _Alright, Moira Blackthorne-Reddington"_ , Liz resumed, insisting on every syllable, _"What do you want from me ?"_

 _"_ _Look at you, trying to be a smart ass when you've got no idea of why I'm doing what I'm doing. What kind of cop are you ?"_

 _"_ _You know that I work with the FBI. You've been spying on me since I posted those messages on La Conciergerie. You know that you and your pathetic little fan-club are under investigation. This is your way of telling me to give up and that if I don't, you'll make me give up"_.

 _"_ _Yes… and no"_.

Moira sat on the bed and looked at Liz with a compassionate gaze, as if she was sorry she could not understand the true meaning of her actions.

 _"_ _Lizzie, I…"_

 _"_ _Stop calling me that"_ , Liz interrupted her in a tone that brooked no argument.

 _"_ _Elizabeth"_ , Moira corrected herself, disconcerted by this interruption, _"I don't care about what you and the FBI have on me. On the contrary, I'm quite happy you find whatever it is you found. But it is only because it's you in particular who found it. You, Elizabeth Keen. The Elizabeth Keen. Raymond Reddington's Elizabeth Keen"_.

The truth hit Liz like a train at full speed. L'Arlésienne had used seven women to catch Reddington's attention, and it had worked beyond what she could have hoped for. Reddington had not just hunted her down or sent his henchmen to take her of her. He had put the FBI on her track, and not just some random team. He had sent his protégée's team. In doing so, he had made a huge mistake, which had turned out to be a godsend for Moira. If anyone had asked her to give the definition of a miracle, she probably would have told that story. That eighth woman would be the one that would precipitate her meeting with Reddington and he was the one who had brought her to her on a silver platter.

 _"_ _Now you understand, Elizabeth. You understand why you're here"_.

 _"_ _I am bait"_.

 _"_ _Exactly"_.

The room went silent, Liz dwelling on what she had just found out, Moira getting herself ready for what she knew to be one of the most important moments of her life.

 _"_ _There's still something that I don't understand"_ , Liz asked, _"Why this obsession with Raymond Reddington ?"_

 _"_ _You wouldn't understand"_ , Moira answered with a disdainful tone.

 _"_ _Try me, I might be the only person who could actually understand"_.

Before Moira could respond, Liz sustained her momentum, the sedative still running through her veins acting as a truth serum. She talked about what, to her mind, could drive a woman to admire a man like Raymond Reddington. It was not just the way he looked at you when you entered the room, nor his extraordinary stories that you could not help but believing in. It was not only his voice that seemed to be forged in mystery and power, nor the inimitable elegance that issued from his perfect suits. It was all of that at one, and so much more. Raymond Reddington mesmerized you by the simple fact that he was Raymond Reddington.

 _"_ _Very touching, Liz. And true, I have to admit"_.

 _"_ _I told you I would understand"_.

 _"_ _Then you will as easily understand that I cannot go back now"_.

The voice was threatening again, not a single ounce of compassion left to coat L'Arlésienne's words. She was back to be MBR, the woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. The woman that had lost herself in her fantasies and had not been able to find her way back to the light. The only glimmer that enlivened her now was the glimmer of madness.

 _"_ _Lizzie, I'm going to untie you from a brief moment. I strongly advise you not to struggle"_.

Elizabeth nodded but when she heard the ticking letting her know her right handcuff had just opened, she reached out to grab the bedside lamp. If she could pull this off, she could knock out Moira. However, the latter was prepared to a reaction from Liz. She punched her so hard that Liz fell back on her pillow, stunned. Moira took advantage of it to finish her work. She changed Liz's handcuffs for the kind of restraints you can find in hospitals, when the patient represents a danger. At that specific moment, Liz realized she was on a hospital bed. That time, Moira answered her questions before she could ask anything.

 _"_ _I don't know if you discovered this during you investigations but I am a biotechnology engineer. To put things clearly, I have a good knowledge of viruses, bacteria and all those sweet little things you wouldn't want too close to yourself. Nevertheless, Lizzie, I'm sorry to inform you that you're about to make the acquaintance with the H10N8 virus, that I modified for you only. When Ray will find out, because he will find out, how long do you think it's going to take him to come and save you ?"_

With that, Liz saw the syringe sparkling in the outside brightness, and foundered again.


	10. Killian Edison

_"_ _Watch out, kid !"_

Lost in his thoughts, Killian Edison was not paying much attention to what was surrounding him and he had not seen the old lady coming in front of him, and had slightly knocked her over.

 _"_ _I… excuse me, madam"_ , he mumbled awkwardly, _"did I hurt you" ?"_

The sheepish look on the young man's face gave Nancy a heartache. He reminded her of Trent, her grandson. Always having his head in the clouds, that one ! But deep down, he was a good boy. With a gesture of the hand, she was him understand that she was alright and both passed on. The courier's mind was still preoccupied with the call he had just received. And for good reason, the call was coming from Raymond Reddington. When they had done business together in the past, Killian always had to deal with henchmen, never the man himself. In the milieu, everybody knew that if Raymond Reddington was taking the trouble of picking up the phone to talk to you directly, it could only mean two things : either he had you in high esteem, or you had committed a blunder, a fatal one. Unfortunately, Killian knew which alternative applied to him. I had understood it the moment he had figured out who was setting an appointment with him in a mall downtown. The fear he had when he had heard his interlocutor's voice had briefly dispersed at the mention of the point of meeting. As powerful as he was, Reddington who not dare attempting anything in a guarded building crowded with potential witnesses. However, he immediately remembered that Moira had just commanded him to arrange the kidnapping of Elizabeth Keen in the National Mall, one of the biggest parks of the city, the Central Park for Washington. His fears went galloping back.

He was particularly worried about the abduction. It had only been an hour since he had left Keen with Moira and now Reddington himself was contacting him, though they had not been in touch for months. Killian was not the type of people to believe in coincidences and to the beauty or the horror of fate and, now more than ever, he could have sworn that none of this was fortuitous. However, he could not back out. Meeting with Reddington may be dangerous, refusing to do so was suicide. It is in the company of the this bad feeling, of which he had not been able to get rid of during the mile he had just travelled, that he arrived to the location set by Reddington, namely a tiny coffee shop stuck between an arcade and a travel agency. Half a dozen of garish green plastic tables, all empty, were arranged in front of the counter, impinging on the central aisle. Killian sat on the one that was the most exposed to the looks, precaution certainly minimal but still confronting. He ordered a coffee from the waitress, glad to see her first customer of the afternoon. Since that new French bakery had opened on the second floor, her regulars had deserted, shamefully abandoning bagels and muffins in favour of those diabolic croissants.

Nervously stirring his steaming beverage, Killian started to scrutinize the vicinity. For the time being, the shops were relatively quiet. A 7-year-old boy came running to the shop window where were displayed the pastries and settled himself in front of a donut covered with icing sugar, before his mother came driving him out. In spite of himself, Killian smiled. He was about that age when he had lost his innocence. He shook his head. It was a long time ago and he had other things on his mind now. The first question that was threading him was the next : was Reddington going to come personally ? As he saw very quickly, the answer was no. A man arrived to the counter and bought a piece of brownie to go. Passing near Killian, he pretended to drop his wallet and, when he got back on his feet, whispered in his ear :

 _"_ _Count to twenty, pay up and follow me"_.

Killian complied, tossed two one-dollar bills on the table and stood up. The mysterious man was striding : consequently, he had a head start on Killian and the latter had to hurry up so he would not be outdistanced. They entered in an elevator opened to public. Though he had been relieved to see that Reddington had only sent an envoy, Killian became less and less relaxed when he realized that they were going down to the mall basement. He had the impression that he was arriving to the gates of Hell. They ended up in the underground parking lot where a black Mercedes with tinted windows was waiting for them. Killian got in the back and the car started. He somehow tried to strike up conversation, in the miraculous event of a huge coincidence, but his interlocutor was not so loquacious and he hushed pretty quickly. Best not say too much. Thirty-five minutes later, the car stopped. Once he got out, a foul odour filled Killian's nostrils, almost making him bring back up the coffee he had just drank up, his nausea caused by the putrid scents as much as by the fact he had realized he had been brought to the docks. Nothing good ever happened in the docks. He felt an iron fist grasping his right arm as a talon and was guided to the warehouse. The flaky paint and the rusty stains covering it helped deducing that it had been closed down many years ago. Indeed, the harbour had been renovated five years ago and the entire area in which the warehouse had been built had ended up being useless. However, no one had ever considered destroying it of finding it another use : it had just been disused.

The inside of the building reeked as much as the outside and Killian wondered why, out of every faraway places, Reddington had specifically chosen that one. He noticed that two chairs had been brought into the centre of the room and, on one of them, he recognized the silhouette of the Concierge of crime, who talked to his henchman first :

 _"_ _Mike ! Do you have what I asked for ?"_

Killian thought he was talking about him but the man called Mike hold the brown bag from the coffee shop to Reddington. Reddington grabbed it, sniffed it and let out a satisfied sigh.

 _"_ _What a smell ! Not enough to camouflage that awful smell of sardines but still…"_ , he deplored before turning to Killian, _"I never understood how they could make such divine brownies when the rest of what they bake is simply vile. I hope you didn't try their cheesecake. Good grief ! I'm shivering just thinking about it !"_

In spite of his position, Killian could only agree with the fact that the coffee was not excellent. Reddington chuckled and started eating. Without really knowing why, these familiarities were making Killian uncomfortable. However, they did not last for very much longer. Five minutes later, the brownie was gone and, Reddington's sympathy with it.

 _"_ _I will get straight to the point, M. Edison"_ , he announced in a voice rumbling as the thunder, _"I know you are the mole in my organization and that you are in close relationship with the woman I call L'Arlésienne"_.

Killian swallowed with difficulty. Even if he had been foolish enough to stay positive until the end – and he had not done that – he was now sure this was not a courtesy call. Nevertheless, he tried to fake a complete ignorance but Reddington did not play along and the tone he used dissuaded Killian to try that again. He knew that Reddington had learnt all those things about him from the Hartwig Twins and rumour had it since yesterday that they were dead. Killian was terrified but, as he managed to announce after gathering all courage he had left, he was not going to betray Moira.

 _"_ _I can understand you"_ , Reddington conceded, _"what wouldn't we do for the woman we love ? That's why I'm going to make you a deal. You talk and I let Moira live. You don't and when I find her – because you know, with or without your help, I will eventually find her – let's just say that nobody would like to be in her shoes"_.

Killian knew the dilemma he had to face. Saving Moira meant betraying her. He also knew that Raymond Reddington was a man of his word : whatever chose he would make, Reddington would keep his promises. Hoping from the bottom of his heart that she would understand why he was doing this, Killian revealed the address of her apartment.

 _"_ _You are not going to harm her, right ?"_ , Killian asked, giving in to panic when he saw Reddington rising.

 _"_ _And I will stick to my word. But I haven't made any promises about you"_ , he replied, pulling a gun out of his pocket.

 _"_ _WAIT ! Wait !"_ , Killian yelled, _"I haven't told you everything. To make sure you would come… Moira… she is an engineer, you know. So she injected her a virus… H10N8, I think. Normally, it's just a form of flu but Moira altered it so it could become super invasive. I didn't understand everything she said but it seemed really serious ! Like the Ebola of flus or something… what I mean is that time is running out for you girlfriend so don't waste any more by shooting me !"_.

Facing death, Killian had gone the whole hog and he was the first surprised to see that it had worked. He knew that, sooner or later, he would have to pay for what he had done to Reddington and to Elizabeth, even more for what he had done to her. But he had managed to make Reddington understand that Liz's time was running out and that he would have to choose between getting his revenge or saving her.


	11. H10N8

It had only taken the virus a few minutes to spread after the infection and Liz had very quickly felt all of its power. The last time she had had the flu, she was nine-years-old. Sam had taken three days off so he could look after her. They spent those days on the couch watching cartoons or playing card games. He would only leave to bring her her medicine or to make her that curry and chicken soup she loved so much. When she was not strong enough to keep her eyes open, he would hold her tightly in his arms, kiss her on the forehead and tell her everything was going to be fine. Twenty years later, Liz would have given anything so he could be at her side but she knew Sam would never find her. Not anymore. And thinking about it was making her sicker than anything else. Maybe she would end up finding him ? Considering her state of health, she considered it would not be surprising. She had no way of checking her temperature but it had to exceed easily 40°C (104F). Her forehead and her arms were so hot that she could have burnt herself just by touching them. However, she was shivering and the two blankets she had upon her were not able to calm her shivers. Every time she blinked, she had to provide a superhuman effort to lift back her eyelids. Many times she had wanted to give up and surrender to the drowsiness that was engulfing her. However, she forced herself to struggle, driven by the fear she had of not waking up. Blood was pounding in her temples, as if a small army of boxers had seeped in her head and had made an effort to punch her skull repeatedly. The fight was also going down inside her chest, where every breath in and out was tearing her apart from the inside. She would not have been that much surprised if her chest had opened and her lungs had unleashed torrents of lava. All that fatigue and all that pain were paralyzing her. The slightest movement multiplying her suffering by ten, she had given up on moving. All she could do was wait. The only question was to know who of Death or help would find her first.

In order to try and forget about the pain, Liz started thinking about her team. Had they find out anything about her ? She knew that the first idea they would have had would have been to track down the Bureau's cell phone she had taken with her before going to National Mall but, unfortunately, she also knew that it was a dead end. The men that had abducted her had taken it from her and put it in a tray filled with acid. Perhaps the team had been able to identify these men ? Though her memories from the events were not the most reliable, Liz tried to remember what had happened. She was waiting on the bench, she was grabbed from behind then lifted and dragged into a black van. She could remember the phone, the sting in her arm, then nothing. Complete darkness until the bedroom with purple wallpapers and the bed with white sheets. She felt a surge of rage impulsively rising inside of her. She hated that room, with its ugly wallpaper and stupid trinkets. She could not stand being locked up in such a room. Even its smell was intolerable. It was a mix of dust, cheap detergent and L'Arlésienne's perfume. Thinking about that woman only increased visceral fury. She had abducted her, drugged her, locked her up and probably killed her. Liz was then seized with an irrational desire. That the team would find nothing. What other choice would they have than turning to Reddington ? If the FBI was finding Moira Blackthorne first, she would be arrested straight away. However, if it was Reddington, she would suffer a long and painful death, and it was all she deserved.

That fit of anger disappeared as quickly as it had come and made room for a new feeling. Fear. Liz realized in terror that the fever was starting to make her rave. She had found herself in trickier situations, she had been closer to death than she was at the moment. However, never she had dreamt of her attackers being killed in agonizing pain. That was not how Sam had raised her, nor how her teachers had taught her the sense of justice in Quantico. The talion law was not relevant in the ranks of the FBI. Nevertheless, she knew that those thoughts did not only come from her high temperature. As Ressler had pointed out to her a few weeks earlier, she was starting to think like Reddington. And she was often wondering if it was a good or a bad thing. In spite of her, her mind began drifting towards Reddington. When he would find out about what Moira had done to her, no doubt that he would come running right away. But could he find her in time ? It was less than sure. A bout of coughing more violent than the others flattened her against the sheets covered in sweat. Her throat was so irritated by her suffocations that blood was mixing to her saliva. Her aches and migraine were making her feel nauseous. Liz felt her mind wander again. It was as she was trying to hold her consciousness back but that it was slipping through her fingers. She felt like a tightrope walker above the void, walking on a string thinner and thinner and more unstable with every step. She could topple any time and falling into this abyss could imply never surfacing again. Gathering her last strengths, her courage and her will to live, she managed to promise herself that that narrow bedroom would not be her grave.

Her last conscious thoughts went to Reddington. He did not only need to find her. She was still conscious enough to trust him with that, also because she knew that Moira wanted him to find her. But he needed to find her in time. In time so she could be cured and saved. In time so she could at least tell him for the first and for the last time how much he meant to her. Liz was terrified. She was feeling herself leaving and she was not strong enough to resist anymore. She had the impression that she was swimming against the tide in a raging sea. The sweat she was bathing in felt like salted water. She could hear the wind howling and the giant waves striking against the shore. They were striking, striking, striking. Suddenly, in a ray of lucidity, Liz understood that the muffled knocks she was hearing were not coming from her hallucination. Someone was smashing the apartment's door open.


	12. Moira Blackthorne

Finally. After all these years. There he was, standing in front of her. His features were not exactly the same but he was still recognizable. His pearl grey three-piece suit, his matching tie, his well-polished shoes, his Swiss watch, his anthracite fedora on the top of his head. Item of clothing by item of clothing, Raymond Reddington materialized before Moira and everything she saw fulfilled her desires. Everything except the 9mm gun he was pointing at her, standing up in the middle of what, only a few moments ago, was still a front door.

 _"_ _You won't need this, Ray"_ , Moira said, trying to sound as calm as possible.

L'Arlésienne's voice troubled Reddington. He had recognized it and, as far as he could remember, it was not possible. His preoccupied mind had to be confusing it with someone else's voice. Given the number of women he rubbed shoulders, and not only shoulders, with every year, it would not have surprised him. However, he was persuaded that he had heard this very particular pitch before, as much as he was sure that the name of Moira Blackthorne was not familiar to him. He gave himself a minute to examine the woman he had in front of him. Tall and slender, her wavy blonde hair was cascading down over her shoulders. She was draped in a long red dress that was cut right above the knee. In spite of the circumstances, Reddington found himself thinking about how gorgeous she was and something was telling him he had already experienced that feeling.

 _"_ _I know you"_ , he said, slightly lowering his gun as he came closer to her.

 _"_ _Indeed"_ , Moira confirmed, unable to hide the joy brought by the fact Reddington was remembering her, _"Arlington. Christmas 1985. You were a Captain by then. My husband was Vice Admiral"_.

Red searched his memory. In 1985, the Vice Admiral was… what was his name again ? Conrad Houston. About fifty, paunchy and wearing a thick white beard which, associated with his jovial personality, had gotten him the nickname of Vice Admiral Santa Claus. As it happens, Moira had just mentioned Christmas. She could only be talking about the US Navy's Christmas party that was held every year at Arlington. Reddington went back in time, thirty years before and saw himself back in front of his superior, a glass of mulled wine in his hand. Very much tipsy, Conrad had introduced him to his wife before heading back to the petits fours, to the cooks' utter despair, unable to keep pace with his ferocious appetite. Reddington had then found himself in company with a very beautiful thirty-year-old woman, so pretty that he had wondered what she was doing with the old rascal that was Conrad Houston. He could now remember where he had heard L'Arlésienne's voice for the first time. It was when she had held out her frail hand to him and introduced herself as Moira. He had then taken her hand into his, with as much care as he had run the risk of breaking it just by touching it, and he had invited her to dance with him. And it was precisely that moment that had not stopped haunting Moira for the past three decades. That moment when the Captain Raymond Reddington had slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her against him, and had dragged her to the dancefloor. She could still feel the touch of his hand pressed against hers, see the way he was smiling at her whenever she would catch his eye, hear the stupid jokes he would whisper to her ear and to which she could not help laughing out loud. She wished that moment had last forever but it had only last as long as a song. By the next song, her partner was again her boor of a husband, with his skimpy uniform covered with gravy and his breath reeking of wine, reality so violent that she had come to wonder if her dance with Reddington had not been a fantasy produced by a mind poisoned by a miserable marriage. Her heart was pounding so hard that she had felt her legs give out and she had extracted herself from the marital embrace to collapse on a chair. She had desperately scanned the room in search of the man that had stolen her heart, her body, her mind and her soul but he was already gone, leaving her alone, broken by the miserable life that was hers and by the ghost of the life she could have had.

 _"_ _I swore to myself that I would see you again and I never forgot you. You didn't make my job easier when you decided to disappear overnight but I persevered. I found you. I found you and I swore I'd find a way to enter your organization"_.

 _"_ _There were other ways than killing my partners"_.

 _"_ _Maybe but it had the merit of bringing you back into my life"_.

In truth, Reddington did not know how to deal with Moira's revelations. He could also remember that night from 1985 but not with so many details. However, oddly, he could not bring himself to tell her that he could not remember her that well. That he had not acted with her differently than with every other woman. That if he had stumbled upon her on the street, in completely different circumstances than the ones reuniting them today, he probably would not have recognized her. For reasons that escaped him, he could not hit her with the news that, to his eyes, she had nothing special. However, even if he could understand the logic that had driven her, it could not erase what she had done, and what she was most likely about to do.

 _"_ _If you care that much about me"_ , Reddington added, weighing every word, _"you'll tell me what you've done to Lizzie"_.

 _"_ _I can't do that"_.

 _"_ _Why ?"_ , he asked, already fearing the worst.

 _"_ _Because if I told you, you'd want to see her, and I can't let that happen"_.

Reddington then remembered what Killian Edison had told him. Moira had infected Liz with an elaborated form of flu and, considering what she had just told him, he understood that she did not want him to be exposed. He then began striding across the living room. While pretending to be thinking, he came nearer to every door, watching out for Moira's reaction. When he finally saw the panic veiling her gaze, he rushed to the door handle.

 _"_ _NO, RAY, NO !"_

Moira had screamed but it was too late. The door was not locked and Reddington had entered the room. Liz lied in the cotton sheets, unconscious. For a moment, Reddington believed he was too late. He closed his fingers around her wrist and felt with relief her pulse, slow but steady. He kept her hand in his and, sitting by her side, caressed her cheek with his other hand.

 _"_ _Lizzie"_.

Liz was lost in the meanderings of her mind but she heard him. At the cost of a substantial effort, she ordered her eyelids to open. The light un the room, even though it was almost inexistent, blinded her before she could see the worried face of Reddington above her. He did it, he found her. She was saved.

 _"_ _Ray, you need to get out of here immediately"_ , Moira warned him in a alarmed tone.

 _"_ _I will not leave without her"_.

 _"_ _If you care about me, you…"_

 _"_ _There are not many women that I care about"_ , he thundered, all trace of compassion gone from his voice and his mind, _"One of them is in this room and I can assure you it is not you"_.

At that specific moment, Moira Blackthorne understood that, for thirty years, she had harboured illusions. All her plans, all her efforts had served no purpose. Raymond Reddington had never cared and would never care about her. He was only there because of this stupid girl.

 _"_ _Stupid girl yes, but stupid girl for whom he's willing to risk his life"_.

Moira hated that little voice, distortion of her own, filling her ears and her mind in her darkest moments. She hated it because it was the voice of the truth, the truth she had refused to face for so long.

 _"_ _He knows he might die but he doesn't care. He wouldn't do that for you. You're not the one he loves"_.

 _"_ _Shut up !"_ , Moira screamed, _"SHUT UP !"_

Red, preoccupied with Liz's state, did not pay attention to Moira's screams, no more than he heard the drawer of the furniture item next to the door opening and closing. However, he saw Liz's eyes opening wide. He felt her removing her hand from his and grabbing the gun he had put on the blankets. He heard the detonation and turned around just in time to see L'Arlésienne collapse, the small-calibre she was holding slipping through her fingers before falling on the floor.


	13. A matter of life and death

Moira was lying on the ground, he hands pressed onto her belly, where the bullet had ripped the flesh. A reddish sticky substance slowly poured from the wound, barely contrasting with the blazing red of her outfit. Her death was quick but not immediate, which allowed her to realize what had happened. The stupid girl had pulled the trigger. Moira could only guess the state of mind the virus had put Liz into, making her barely aware of her surroundings and her doings. She had killed for Reddington not out of sangfroid : it was not a calculated, premeditated murder, Reddington's life against Moira's. In the condition she was, her thoughts could not have been that rational. No, she had killed out of instinct. It was her body and not her mind that had laid down the law, as if sensors embedded into her skin had alerted her about an imminent danger threatening Reddington and that her hands had made their own decision of firing. To Moira's mind, if a person could act in such a way to save another, it could only mean one thing. And if the person that needed saving was willing to die for their saviour, it could only mean the same thing. Moira had tears in her eyes, tears of anger and not of sadness. She had almost killed the love of her life because she had gotten carried away and, by doing so, she had condemned herself. Above all, she had to spend her remaining moments on Earth witnessing him taking care of another woman than her. He was there, in front of her, as she had always dreamt him to be, but the only thing that she could see was that he was in love with someone else. And it was that wound, the wound of her broken heart realizing that everything she had done had been and would ever have been in vain, far more than the wound cutting her abdomen, that killed her. With her dying breath, L'Arlésienne left the stage.

More than he heard it, Reddington guessed Moira's last gasp. He laid eyes on the woman and, for a brief moment, his eyes veiled. He had not had time to realize what Liz was about to do. Focusing back on the young woman, he understood that she did not either. Her glazed eyes were staring at the spot L'Arlésienne was standing on the minute before, as she was not even aware that she was now lying on the floor.

 _"_ _Is she…?"_

Her question, frail clue of a possible recognition of what she had done, remained unanswered. Reddington took carefully the gun out of her hands and put it back to its place, in his pocket. Then, keeping Liz's hand in his, he nodded. _"Yes, Lizzie"_ , he thought, _"she is dead"_. As many words that he could not pronounce out loud, in the gloomy silence of the room. For a reason that he could not comprehend, L'Arlésienne's death affected him. She had caused many deaths infiltrated her organization and gone after Lizzie : he should have hated her with all his might and should have had only one regret, not being the one who pulled the trigger. However, looking at her now, all broker, a thousand touches of pain painted all over her face, he felt a pang of emotion. She had lost herself because she had fallen in love with over. In other circumstances, he could have found this flattering. But he could sense that deep down, he was as much to blame as she was. One way or another, he always ended up hurting the people around him. He was no stranger to that feeling of guilt but, that day of all days, he could feel its appalling truth. Moira Blackthorne should not have died that night, and he knew it. However, those were things he could definitely not tell Liz : he had done enough harm already. Forcing a comforting smile to appear on his lips, he affirmed to Liz that she had made the right choice and that, by doing so, she had saved them. There was no point in weighing her down : she would take care of it when she could come to her senses anyway.

Right now, the most important thing to do what to get her help. Carefully, Reddington put one arm around her waist, the other under her legs and pulled her out of the bed, as easily as she was as light as a feather. Leaving L'Arlésienne in her red velvet abode, he went through the doors he had knocked down entering and hurtled down the stairs. From afar, he yelled to Dembe, who was waiting for him by the car, not to come closer. He did not know to what extent Moira's virus was contagious but he was already feeling feverish. It could be the simple consequence of all the events that had just happened but he did not want to run the risk of putting Dembe in danger. As fast as he could, he asked him to call Mr. Kaplan and Harold Cooper, one to take care of the apartment, the other to secure a wing in the nearest hospital. He had barely finished his sentence that Dembe was already running to what he had to do, after wishing him good luck. Just then, an old man, attracted by the noise, stuck his head in the window, right above Reddington.

 _"_ _Hey what's with the performance ?"_ , he grumbled, both flustered by the row that had dragged him from his nap and intrigued by this gentleman carrying a girl in his arms.

 _"_ _I'm very sorry, sir"_ , Reddington apologized with a smile, _"young people nowadays, you know what it is ! My daughter here is part of this generation of ungrateful scatterbrains and I'm the one that always gets landed when she ends up like that !"_

Grunting his approval of the debauchery of the youth, the old man went back to his chair. Glad to have gotten rid of him so easily, Reddington put Liz on the passenger seat. When he put himself behind the wheel, she blurted a slender laugh out. The last thing she heard herself ask him was to know if he actually knew how to drive.

When she regained consciousness, it felt like an eternity had just gone by. Her entire body was beset by aches but her temperature seemed stable and her mind brightened. Her relief was of short duration when she realized that Reddington was lying on the bed next to hers, a drip similar to hers taped to his arm, regularly injecting him the cure against Moira's poison. When the nurse in charge of their follow-up entered the room, Liz bombarded her with questions about Reddington's condition.

 _"_ _Don't worry about him"_ , the nurse reassured her, _"he was less exposed to the virus than you were. If you're fine, then he will be fine"_.

She was about to leave but reconsidered and added :

 _"_ _You got incredibly lucky that he found you and rushed you here so fast. Without that, without him, your state would have been a lot more critical, or worse. I guess you have a guardian angel"_.

Once the nurse closed the door, Liz turned to the man that was indeed her guardian angel. He was taking every chance he had to prove that to her. In spite of her still great weakness, Liz got up from bed. Feeling dizzy, she hung on to the bedside table. One step after the other, she arrived to Reddington's bed. He was sound asleep, as it had not happened to him in many years. She slipped next to him, her hand on his heart, her head leant against his shoulder. Snuggled up to him like that, she went to join him in dreamland.


	14. Promises

Forty-eight hours had gone by since the purple bedroom events. Reddington and Liz had received the visit of the entire team. Ressler had felt duty-bound to reproach Reddington for not telling them about the progress of his personal investigations, arguing that they could have been of great help, to which Cooper had calmly replied that what was done was done and that the most important thing was that Elizabeth was fine. Aram caused a general hilarity when he entered the room with a giant wicker basket in which he had tried to somehow hide a batch of cupcakes of his composition, the trick being revealed by the smell of vanilla and chocolate that exuded from under the blanket he had put over the basket. Red and Liz were very grateful for that kind though, as much for the gesture it meant from their friend as for the fact that they could finally eat something that was not tasteless. Moreover, the cakes had turned out to be delicious.

Once the duty called the team back, Red and Liz found themselves alone again. Reddington had perfectly recovered, considering the virus did not have the time to spread in his whole organism. However, the medical team had not authorized his discharge, choosing to keep him under observation. Even if they had been willing to let him out, Reddington would have refused. It was out of the question for him to leave Liz all alone, even if she knew that she was out of harm's way. Her condition was still feeble and some company, preferably his company, could only be good for her. The director of the hospital and Harold Cooper having given them permission to get out of the room – neither of them believing that one of the patients or a member of the staff would recognize in the patient from room 173 one of the most wanted men in the country – Reddington offered Liz to go for a walk in the courtyard, which Liz accepted with pleasure.

The courtyard was not very vast. Situated at the back of the building, it consisted of a long gravel road that stretched to a fountain and separated two big rectangles of green lawn on which were spread some benches. For the time being, none of them was occupied and the garden was deserted. Outside, despite a shining sun, the air war still fresh. Her first inhalation caused Liz to cough violently, her lungs still weaken by their encounter with the H10N8 virus. Reddington offered to take her back inside but she refused : she needed to get some air. Leaning on his arm, she set herself the goal of reaching the bench that was halfway between the door and the fountain, being about 250m from where they were standing. Normally, she would have covered the distance in no time. Today, she was hoping that she could go there and back without suffocating. She moved forward and Reddington adjusted his pace to hers. They remained silent during the first meters. Then, not able to wait any longer, Liz brought up what was preoccupying her.

 _"_ _When you carried me to the car… you said that… well, I think I heard you say I was your daughter. Is that… ?"_

 _"_ _True ?"_ , Reddington finished, _"No, Lizzie. I am not your father. That old man was wondering why we were making so much noise and I made that story up so he would not ask too many questions. I couldn't actually tell him that you were my girlfriend"_.

 _"_ _Why not ?"_ , Liz thought, not daring to say it out loud, without suspecting that deep down, Reddington was asking himself the same question.

They resumed their silent walk for a few moments, before Liz broke the silence again.

 _"_ _You remember, at the beginning of all this, when you announced us that Vanessa had killed for you ? At the time, I thought it was presumptuous of you. Well, more presumptuous than usual"_.

Before Reddington's frown, Liz reminded, not without a touch of mischief, that he was not a model of modesty.

 _"_ _The fact remains that"_ , she resumed in a more serious tone, _"it was not that hard to kill for you, in the end"_.

 _"_ _I am so sorry that you had to do it"_ , he apologized.

 _"_ _I had to. It was her or you"_.

Thereupon, Liz finally reached the bench. Exhausted, she sat to catch her breath, Reddington sitting by her side. In front of her, the bay window serving as the door leading to the courtyard was reflecting the sun's radiance on its transparent panels, which made her blink. Getting used to the reflection, she could discern the swarm of doctors, nurses, patients and visitors that were milling about in the hallway. The staff passing with food trolleys heralded lunchtime. When she made the remark to Reddington, pouting in spite of herself, he let slip a sigh, as much to make her laugh as to let her know what he thought of those meals that were absolutely not hospitable.

 _"_ _As soon as we get out of here"_ , he affirmed while helping her getting up, _"I am taking you out to dinner"_.

Their attention was captured by the sound of the sliding doors opening. A man dressed in black, his hands in his pockets, a cap on his head, was approaching quickly. After several unsuccessful phone calls, Killian Edison had finally managed to unearth the location where Reddington had taken agent Keen to. Seeing her so close to him, finally, he started to seethe. She had murdered Moira. His Moira. And without Reddington doing anything to stop it.

 _"_ _You promised me"_ , Killian proclaimed in a toneless voice, _"You promised me that if I told you where to find her, you would not hurt Moira. You made that promise to me. And you broke it. You let her die. You let her bleed out without even caring about what would happen to her. And then you made sure not to leave any trace of her. I don't know where Mr. Kaplan took her. Your betrayed me, you betrayed her and you don't even let me have the scant consolation to have a place to mourn her. I am going to make you regret this, Raymond Reddington"_.

Killian pulled out the gun of his deceased companion, last memory he had of her, and got himself ready to shoot. Reddington saw in him the look of a man who had nothing left to lose, for whom revenge was the only thing that still mattered. Alerted by the gunshot, the security guards from the establishment rushed outside and grasped Killian round the waist before he could fire again. Elizabeth was standing above Reddington, pressing with all of her strength on the gaping wound that was making a hole in his chest. Killian had wanted to get revenge by taking away from Reddington what Reddington had taken away from him. Understanding that, Red had interposed himself, taking with full force the bullet intended for Liz.

 _"_ _Red"_ , she wept, _"you can't leave me, you can't die"_.

 _"_ _Lizzie"_ , he whispered, gathering his last strengths to put his hand on hers, _"You just told me how easy it was to kill for me. Let me tell you that it is even easier to die for you"_.


	15. So close

_"_ _He will be fine"_.

Those four words were the only words Liz had heard from everything Dr Templeton had said, Ressler having to tell her everything again a second time. The bullet had touched Reddington to the chest. It had caused some serious damage leading to some significant blood loss but it had gone through and through without mishap and had not touched any vitals. He had been extremely lucky to have been within the hospital because it had allowed the paramedics to quickly stop the bleeding and to rush him to the operating room. His arm would have to be immobilized for several weeks and he would have some difficulties to breathe for a few days but he would be going well, except for a five-centimetre long scar. So much information that the surgeon had summed up with a "He will be fine" at the beginning of her explanations, before Liz's dead worried look. All the time he was undergoing surgery, Liz had not said a word, praying for the doctor not to come back with bad news. She could not let Reddington die. For her or for anyone else, but especially not for her. Ressler had waited with her, comforting her the best he could until she was allowed to go back to the room she shared with Reddington.

She felt heart-broken when she entered the room. For the second time of the day, she was seeing him lying in that hospital bed. This time however, she could discern under his gown a thick dressing of white gauze covering his shoulder. Quietly, Ressler, who had stayed on the threshold, closed the door and slipped away. Liz sat on the bedside and took Reddington's good hand into hers. This simple touch had to reach in the depths of his dreams since the next instant, he opened up his eyes.

 _"_ _Lizzie"_ , he said in a feeble voice.

 _"_ _How are you feeling ?"_

 _"_ _Old"_ , he grumbled, _"but not so bad, considering the circumstances. What about you ?"_

 _"_ _I… I'm not sure"_ , she answered, trying very hard to hold back the tears that rushed to her eyelids.

 _"_ _Hey, don't cry"_ , he reassured her, _"I'm fine. You won't get rid of me so easily"_.

This comment made her smile. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. They then stayed a long moment without talking to each other, before Reddington asked what had happened to Killian.

 _"_ _Police arrested him. He will be charged with attempted murder"_ , she informed him.

 _"_ _Good"_ , Reddington replied, knowing pertinently that nothing good had come out of all this story.

 _"_ _You know"_ , Liz continued, the fever from her flu combined with the one resulting from the events of the afternoon, making her talk more than she would have consciously do, _"I understand why he did what he did. He loved that woman more than anything and I killed her. I mean… if it was you that had been killed this way, I would probably have done the same thing"_.

 _"_ _I know"_.

Reddington removed his hand from Liz's to put it on her hair. Liz felt like she was melting. It was as if the fire that had lead them to meet all those years ago was now burning inside her. The feeling worsens when Reddington slid his hand on her cheek and left it there, waiting for her tacit or not consent to go further. She was about to go for it and lean towards him when they heard three brief knocks on the door, which opened to let Dembe in, his arms laden down with several white plastic bags which, if you were to trust the smell exuding from them, came from a Chinese takeout. As she had gotten an electric shock, Liz sat up straight swiftly, blushing. As for Reddington, he acted like nothing had been interrupted. Dembe, too busy wondering how he was going to manage to open the door without dropping everything, had not noticed a thing.

 _"_ _Thank you so much, Dembe. Lizzie, I told you that once we got out of here, I'd invite you to dinner. Since it appears that someone somewhere does not want me to get out of here, I asked Dembe to bring dinner to us. Between you and me and the gate-post, it's probably for the best. If I had shown you the place where these meals came from, you wouldn't have touched them. However, I can guarantee you that no one cooks a sweet and sour pork like Tao !"_

While Reddington was talking, Dembe had put the food containers on the bedside table and had brought it closer so that Reddington and Liz could eat face to face. If he had noticed nothing when he had entered the room, Dembe could now see that Red and Liz could not wait to be alone. Therefore, after Reddington had thanked him once again, he left. Reddington and Liz ended one-to-one again. It was at this precise moment that they realized just how much the events from the past few days had brought them closer. They had known each other for almost a year now and yet, it was only those last few days that had made them understood how much they care about each other, and even more. When they finished their meal, that, as Reddington had announced, had turned out to be delicious, their fingers intertwined again, naturally.

 _"_ _Lizzie"_ , Red asked, _"the other day… I don't know if I dreamt or not but I think that you laid down beside me"_.

 _"_ _I did, yes"_.

 _"_ _Could you do it again ?"_

As an answer, Lizzie gestured him to move aside and climbed in bed next to him. He put his arm around her, on her waist. Instantly, Liz felt safer that she had ever been. And, deep down, she knew that feeling would never leave her again.


End file.
